


If You Can't Crawl

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What gets left behind and what does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Crawl

"You're dead, cadet. Would you like to know why?"

Gaila swears under her breath – in English, since she likes the short syllables and hard consonants of her host-planet's dominant tongue – and opens her eyes. Commander Pooran stands akimbo over her, thin lips folded in a supercilious smile. (Supercilious is another word that Gaila likes, since it sounds the way it should; you can't say it without hissing.)

"I hesitated too long," Gaila says.

"You hesitated," says Pooran, "_period._ Altruism is all well and good, cadet, and under the right circumstances, it's to be commended. But when your superior officer gives you orders to evacuate a certain area, you _follow those orders_. You don't stand there dithering—"

Gaila can hear tittering above and around her; several members of her squad must be loving this, she thinks sourly. "I thought I could save Cadet Masters," she says. "All I needed was—"

"Well, you didn't have it, you didn't save her, and now you're both dead."

Gaila glances at Masters, who's sprawled facedown a few meters away. She gets a brief smile and a discreet eye-roll, and feels minutely better. Pooran goes on for a little while longer, but Gaila tunes her out. By the time the combat sim is shut down and the squad is dismissed for the afternoon, she no longer feels like a _complete_ fuck-up. Just a partial one.

Masters catches up with her as she's walking toward the mess hall. "Pooran's kind of a hard-ass," she says by way of greeting. "She's usually right, but she has this way of making her point that makes you feel like an idiot."

_Like I don't really belong,_ is how Gaila finishes the sentence in her mind.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate what you tried to do," Masters continues. "Not that I won't kick your ass if you try to do it in a real emergency situation. Assuming I'm not already dead. But I appreciate it."

Gaila glances at Masters. Their eyes meet, and Masters smiles again, a little shyly. This time Gaila returns the smile, though she doesn't feel it anywhere except her mouth. She thinks, _There's this boy I know. This man, really. Sometimes he's full of shit, but he doesn't believe in no-win scenarios, and I like that about him. That, and his face. And his body. And the way he— Anyway, I was trying to think like him back there._ She doesn't say it because that would make her sound even stupider than she feels, so she just keeps smiling and walking and waits for Masters to shrug and turn away.

She doesn't. "My name's Charlene, by the way. Gaila's your first name, isn't it?"

"It's my only name." The only one she chose to keep.

Charlene doesn't hear the stiffness in her tone, apparently, or else she ascribes it to embarrassment over the combat sim. She says hopefully, "Want to get some coffee? I have about forty minutes before my next class and I think I could use some fuel. Which, to be frank, is what the coffee they serve here should probably be used for, since that's how it tastes…"

A part of Gaila wants to say no, to make some excuse and then flee to her favorite quiet spot, which is a little nook in the greenhouse, where there's a small pond with bright blue fish, and a pimalia tree with flowers that are shaped like white fans dusted with gold. But then she would be alone with her thoughts, and she's not ready for that, she decides.

Her laughter comes a little more easily than she'd anticipated. "Sure," she says.

*

That night, when Gaila is in bed, pretending to sleep so her roommate will study quietly, she remembers the ship. She was only ten Standard years old at the time, so she doesn't remember much about it. Just the close, cramped quarters that she had to share with four of her house sisters; the feverishly flickering light in the corridor just outside their door, which no one seemed to know how to fix – though Gaila imagined that she could have, had she been allowed to try, since she was always so good at figuring out how one thing connected to another; the tasteless rations; the fear in the eyes of her eldest house sister.

Gaila can't remember the girl's name – it's been nearly ten years – but she can remember the fear in those wide purple eyes.

Wherever the ship was taking them, it wasn't anyplace good.

Mostly, Gaila remembers the smell as the fire spread throughout the ship. Not the smell itself, but the pain it caused her; it was as if someone had rammed two metal spikes up her nose and down her throat. She remembers holding her mouth and nose, and sobbing as she ran down the corridor, toward the escape pods. There'd been no safety lesson when she and her house sisters were brought aboard. She'd never seen a layout of this particular ship.

But Gaila had peeked at the layouts of similar ships, and she was good at figuring out how one thing connected to another.

She was sure at least one of her sisters had been close behind her for much of the way. Nearly eight years later, she is still sure, though she doesn't know – she never knew – which one it was, and when they were separated. It was so dark, and there was so much noise – the ship was groaning, wailing in its death throes – Gaila couldn't hear the sound of her own frantic heartbeat.

At the hatch that led to the escape pods, Gaila turned and waited. She opened her mouth – she remembers this distinctly – but didn't know which name to call. And anyway, how could anyone hear her over the noise of the ship?

For eight years, Gaila has wondered what might have happened if she'd waited just a little bit longer, or if she'd gone back. Not very far, just a little ways. Just to _see_. She might have been caught by one of the men. She might have been crushed by hot, writhing metal. Or she might have saved … someone.

*

Lying on her side in the corridor of the dying _Farragut_ one year later, this is what Gaila thinks about. Not getting up (she doesn't know _what_ she broke when she was thrown off her feet, but it _hurts_) and not about calling for help (she can't seem to get enough air into her lungs for a deep breath, never mind a shout, and besides, who would hear her?)

She doesn't think that this is justice.

She thinks that this _sucks_.

She thinks she's dreaming when she feels an arm slide under her shoulders, lifting her gently. "M'dreaming," she croaks, and _feels_ the blood inside her – what's left – slosh as she's pulled to her feet. "Oh—"

"If this is a dream," Charlene Masters grates out, holding Gaila against her side, her arm looped around her waist, "could you please dream us somewhere nicer? Tropical beach, maybe, with some hot guys in sarongs, bringing us cold drinks?"

They're moving slowly down the corridor. In the direction of the shuttlecraft, Gaila surmises blearily. Masters would move a lot faster if she let go and went on alone. Gaila tries to tell her this. Pooran's going to _yell_… But all that comes out is:

"Shouldn'. M'a kick yer ass."

"After."

The conviction in her tone knocks the protest from Gaila's lips. _If I die now, she'll let me go. I won't weigh her down, and maybe she'll be safe._

But she doesn't die. She doesn't die, Masters doesn't let go, and she can feel the floor beneath her feet as she keeps going, and begins to hope.

5/18/2010


End file.
